


how long would i wander by your side

by cherryconke



Series: how long would i wander by your side [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Feelings, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Sharing a Bed, Soft Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Tender Sex, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryconke/pseuds/cherryconke
Summary: “Really, Fe? You’ve never thought about what you’d do if you weren’t tied to any of this? If crests and heirs and houses didn’t matter?”“Of course I’ve thought about it. There’s just no use in dreaming about a future that will never exist,” Felix snaps back, shying away from Sylvain’s actual question and rebuffing him the only way he knows how – sharp words that sting as they leave his throat.“I guess,” he replies, sounding mournful. “I just hope that… there’s something more for me than our pre-planned futures. More for us.”





	1. i drew a waveform with your blood

**Imperial Year 1184**

His blade sings as he rains down blow upon blow, metal meeting metal in an unholy song of destruction and death. It’s the most natural thing in the world to let his sword flow like an extension of his body, graceful and quick. He weaves and snakes and slices through the front line of soldiers, barely registering the beads of sweat plastering his hair to his face. From his left, the warp and whir of magic bursting from Mercedes’ outstretched hands heats the air. The steady thrum of arrows notching from Ashe’s bow vibrates to the right. 

The battle is in full swing. 

Hardly taking a moment to breathe, Felix dives back into the fray. He cuts down a mage before quickly parrying with a foot soldier, darting back and forth with perfect footwork. A mixture of triumph and sheer relief floods within him as he lands a deadly blow in the slim gap between the stranger’s shoulder piece and breastplate. Beyond the two just-felled soldiers, he can see his old professor’s shaggy, light green hair whirling about, looking like he hasn’t aged a day. Byleth’s sword resembles his own – dark and oily with blood.

Short puffs of air burst forth from his lips. His heart is pounding hard, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the protection of his armor. He flicks his gaze across the battlefield, naturally drawn to the brighter, familiar bursts of color among the washed-out scenery of mud and gore – pale orange Annette furiously hacking down soldiers with an axe, ashen white Dedue in gleaming armor, brilliantly blonde Dimitri twirling with a hungry, vengeful look in his eye – each of his former classmates fighting tooth and nail against the Imperial troops. 

Further away, he can make out the flap of pegasus wings and the gleam of Ingrid’s lance in the weak sunlight as she works to drive the enemy line further and further back. A flash of red isn’t too far behind her – Sylvain, maneuvering his mount with reckless enthusiasm as he spears through one, two, three soldiers in a row. Felix’s heart jolts and stutters as the tip of an axe whizzes by his ear, dangerously close. He’s too far away to see his expression, but he knows from years of training and battling side-by-side that his brows are furrowed in concentration, mouth twisted into a sharp pout, grimacing with each thrust of his lance. 

“Forward! Push them back!” Byleth’s cry rings loud and clear ahead of him. Felix, broken out of his reverie, pushes his sweaty, half-undone hair back from his face with the crook of his elbow before advancing forward, cutting down any who stands before him.

He reaches the last line of troops a sweaty mess, his linen shirt plastered to his back beneath layers of armor. Sweat pools at the nape of his neck and splashes down his back as he slashes once, twice, slaying the last man before him with deadly efficiency. There’s a trickle of blood streaming from a shallow cut on his cheek, trailing down his neck to stain his shirt. With no one left to challenge, he takes a deep, shuddering breath, feeling feverish from the adrenaline pumping through him. Magic thrums through his skin, fingertips tingling as he swiftly wipes down and sheathes his blade. He turns back towards the battlefield, where the rest of the army is approaching, exhausted and worn from the long, difficult battle.

They’d managed to come out victorious against the band of Imperial soldiers – just barely. The particular brutality of the battle had taken a toll, evident in the glassy-eyed stares of Ashe and Annette; telltale in the weary way Mercedes checks each of them over for wounds. Aside from the group, Byleth and Dimitri huddle close, green hair clashing with blonde where they lean into one other. Felix watches briefly as Byleth’s hand strokes over Dimitri’s shoulder, soothing reassurances passing through chapped lips. 

Mercedes moves towards him, eyeing him up and down critically before focusing in on his cheek. “Felix, come here please, you’ve got–”

“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch,” he mutters distractedly, without his usual biting energy that keeps everyone around him away. He half-heartedly pushes her hands away as she reaches up to wipe blood and viscera away from his cheek. “Where’s Sylvain?” he asks, eyes roving the skyline, waiting for that dumb, fluffy head of hair to show up at any minute. He feels the flow of white magic move from Mercedes’ gentle fingertips deep into his face, that unsettling spiders-under-your-skin feeling of tendons and tissues re-knitting themselves at breakneck speed.

“I haven’t seen him, I think he went beyond that ridge with Ingrid to scout out the rest of the camp,” Mercedes replies, biting her lip in concentration as her fingers apply more pressure to his face. He winces as his cheek grows hot with healing magic, still scanning the horizon for that familiar shock of hair amongst the shades of mud and tan. 

He’s not sure exactly why he can’t fully relax after battle until he finds Sylvain. It probably has something to do with years of growing up training together, the concept of always watching each other’s backs hardwired into him. Maybe it’s been a part of him ever since he first held a sword, determined to be the strongest, the fastest, the protector. Maybe it’s in the way his stomach flips and turns when it’s just him and Sylvain, and Sylvain’s stupid fake smile has shifted to something more genuine, more pure, and Felix has dropped his guard and isn’t quite as argumentative as usual. Maybe it’s the foolish oath they’d made to each other as children, Felix’s stubborn ferocity to not let Sylvain back out of that promise. 

–

**Imperial Year 1170**

“Wait up!”

The waves rise in great big swells, crashing relentlessly on the rocky shoreline. The sound roars in Felix’s ears, drowning out his yells as his bare feet pick their way clumsily down the beach, dodging barnacles and the dried husks of long dead crabs and crustaceans as he hastens his beeline towards the water. 

“Syl-VAIN!” He bellows, lungs pumping as he struggles to keep up with the older boy’s longer legs. “Don’t go in without me!” 

Sylvain, for his part, whips his head around to flash Felix a brilliant grin, white teeth glinting off the light of the sun. “Better catch me then, Fe!” He taunts back mischievously, feet running hard across the weathered rocks. Sylvain turns back to face towards the salt-sharp breeze of the sea, the weak winter sun illuminating his red locks, a pure fireball of energy running towards the water. 

His bare feet hit the shock of icy cold water not five seconds later, waves lapping hungrily at his ankles as he leaps, hopping back and forth on his feet, not daring to stay in one place too long for fear of going numb. “C’mon, Lix!” Sylvain cries, infectious laughter bubbling up in his throat to spill out, carefree and easy as he revels in the brief break they’ve taken from being cooped up in the Fraldarius estate. His laughter dies out quickly, however, as he turns to look for Felix, who should’ve been right on his heels. He spots him further up the beach, crumpled on the ground.

“Owww,” Felix cries, his limbs folding in, fat tears welling at his eyes as he clutches at his skinned knee. “Sylvaaain,” He whines, mouth twisting into a practiced pout as the tears begin to leak from the corners of his eyes to run small rivers down his face. Sylvain rolls his eyes, unable to contain his exasperation. They’d grown up together, and Felix had always been a sensitive kid. Sometimes, though, he could just be _such_ a crybaby. He’s small for his age, a whole three years younger than himself – an age difference that’s starting to feel more and more important in ways that Sylvain isn’t sure he particularly likes. 

“C’mon, Felix, stop being such a baby,” he jokes as he jogs back up the beach, bending down to offer him a hand up. Felix doesn’t take it, looking up at him with watery eyes and a quivering lip. “You’re so mean,” he shoots back, wiping tears and snot away with the back of his hand. He sniffles pitifully as he looks down to where blood is welling out of his bent knee. Part of Sylvain’s heart twists painfully. He tries to tell himself it’s out of disgust and annoyance rather than guilt, but he fails. He’s always had a soft spot for him; he’s never been able to brush off Felix like Dimitri or Glenn have. 

He drops to his knees, meeting Felix’s amber eyes. “Aw, Fe, you know I’m just joking, right?” he asks softly, reaching out to brush a newly formed tear away with his fingertips. Felix’s lower lip gives another quiver as he turns away from him stubbornly, crossing his arms across his chest. “No you’re not. You’re right. I’m just a stupid crybaby,” he replies, deadly serious. His shoulders tremble as he drops his head into his arms, curling up into a ball before letting out another soft sob.

“Hey, hey, nuh-uh,” Sylvain protests, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close against his chest. He rests his chin on top of Felix’s inky hair, feeling him slowly start to relax into his hug. Sylvain pulls back a bit, brushing his bangs from his eyes. His mind does a quick backtrack through the past year – all of the teasing they’d had at Felix’s expense. Jabs, however playful, for not jumping as high, for not running as fast, for not dueling as hard. “We all love you, y’know that, right? Me and Dima and Ingrid. And Glenn,” Sylvain trails off, hoping that his words are even a little bit comforting. He can feel Felix shuddering beneath him as his body is wracked with a deep, heaving sob.

“Not my father,” Felix whispers quietly into his arms, so softly that Sylvain strains to hear. “He loves Glenn more.” Sylvain’s heart shatters into a million pieces, torn apart by the evident heartbreak in Felix’s voice. He sniffles again, peering up to look at Sylvain, eyes rimmed red from crying. Sylvain shakes his head, pulling him closer. Felix’s hands reach up to clench and twist in the front of his cloak.

“No, Fe. He loves you, he just...” Sylvain shakes his head ruefully. “Doesn’t know how to show it.” His hand reaches up to pet his hair away from his tear-stained face. “And that isn’t your fault.”

The two boys sit there, waves crashing as the salty breeze beats around them. Felix’s sobs subside slowly until his body is lax in Sylvain’s arms.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Felix asks quietly, his solemn angular face turning to peer up at him. 

“I’m sorry, Fe. I won’t do it again,” he promises honestly.

“Ever?” Felix’s expression has doubts. 

“I promise. Do you think I’ll ever leave you behind?” Sylvain gives him a soft grin, but Felix continues to stare up at him with watery eyes, unconvinced. “Fe, c’mon. You’ll never get rid of me,” Sylvain says playfully, managing to coax a small smile out of him. “Listen, I promise I’ll wait for you from now on. You have my word.” 

“Forever?” So doubtful, so untrusting, his best friend. Ignored by his father, bested by his brother. Sylvain's family might not be the happiest, most functional bunch, but he certainly doesn't envy Felix's position. Sylvain squeezes him tight, a tangle of bony limbs and sharp angles gathered up in his arms. 

“Yeah, Fe. Forever.”

–

Sylvain’s mount crests the ridge. From afar, Felix can sense something is off, something deeply wrong. The way his lance is dragging on the ground behind his mount, posture slumped and crooked. His typical triumphant grin is gone, as is his usual air of pomp and cockiness. Felix pushes Mercedes’ hands away, more forcefully this time, as he moves, magnetically drawn towards his best friend. He’s close enough now to see Ingrid astride behind him, struggling to hold him up as Sylvain’s head lolls backwards onto her shoulder. His eyes are shut tight in agony, teeth clenching against the pain. Ingrid urges the horse forward, galloping towards their group at full speed.

“Mercy! Professor!” She calls out, a sharp note of fear in her voice twisting like a dagger in Felix’s insides. “We were attacked–” they gallop closer, stopping just short of the group. Dedue and Byleth have already sprung into action, busy helping Ingrid dismount Sylvain. His body is limp in their collective arms as they lay him down on the nearest intact patch of grass. Mercedes’ hands are already glowing, magic vibrating thick in the air as she moves over Sylvain’s body, deftly unbuckling the chest plate of his armor and tossing it aside unceremoniously. Felix’s brain completely shorts out as he watches her uncover a bright, unmistakable bloom of red spreading on Sylvain’s shirt.

His body working of its own volition, Felix drops to his knees beside where Sylvain lies. His eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his freckled cheeks. He looks almost peaceful. “Sylvain, wake up,” he begs, not noticing and not caring of how desperate his voice sounds in front of everyone. He reaches a gloved hand out to shake his shoulder, swearing under his breath. Mercedes scowls at him, pushing him back none-too-gently. Her hands press desperately above the wound, white magic pulsing as she grits her teeth together. “Professor, we need to get him back to camp. Now.”

Byleth nods, his mouth a thin line. “Dedue. Take him back. Straight to Linhardt.” The command flows freely, easily off his tongue, pushing everyone into action – Mercedes following Dedue, Annette wrapping her arms around Ingrid. Felix faintly registers the tears staining their way down her face. He feels like he’s swimming underwater, voices and sounds slurring in his ears, each movement hazy with rippling after-images. He turns slowly, as if he’s going to follow Dedue, before being stopped by Byleth’s hand against his chest.

“Felix, I need you to collect Sylvain’s mount.” He scowls, unformed protests dying on the tip of his tongue as he meets Byleth’s solemn gaze. There’s a hard, stubborn glint in his eye. “I’m sorry. Mercedes and Linhardt need room to work. You can see him later,” Byleth says in a softer voice, not unkindly. His hand moves to Felix’s shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze before patting him twice. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, softer this time, out of earshot of everyone. Felix turns to watch as Byleth and Dimitri move past him, swinging up onto their respective mounts and kicking them into a gallop. His heart sinks in his chest as Dedue disappears over the horizon, a shock of messy red hair visible in his arms.

—

“What the fuck is taking them so long?” Felix asks out loud for the umpteenth time. He’s pacing a track back and forth in front of where Ingrid sits cross-legged on his cot. She’s completely still, blankly staring at the inside of the tent wall as Felix makes another lap in front of her. Dimitri isn’t there – probably out destroying an entire grove of trees in his ground-shaking rage, _again_ – but Annette is, her arm slung over Ingrid’s shoulders, rubbing comforting circles into her skin. The sight of such tenderness between friends makes Felix want to puke, so he grits his teeth and turns away from the sight. An well anger inside of his chest pangs at the idea of Sylvain never rubbing circles into his arm ever again.

“I’m going to go ask Byleth again–” bursts from his lips, desperate to do something, anything at all. He’s not typically a patient person, and the waiting has turned from painful to agonizing. He feels jittery, shaky, like if he stops moving he’ll fall apart violently at the seams. Ingrid’s head jerks up. “No. Byleth will come get us when the healers are done,” her voice of reason soothes the child inside of Felix but does nothing to dissipate his nervous energy. Felix scowls, choosing not to respond or argue. Ingrid is right, and he knows it.

Minutes tick by, then hours, the watery daylight fading to dusk. The sounds of camp setting up for supper clatter around them, and Annette dashes out to get them servings, which Felix spoons past his lips without registering the flavor or form of what he’s eating. He pushes his bowl aside to resume his pacing. The tent flap rustles, and Byleth ducks in. Ingrid’s eyes flick over and Felix pauses his pacing. “Is he–”

“He’s… not great.” Byleth’s mouth is a thin, firm line. He looks straight at Felix, green eyes piercing him with intensity. “He’s asking for you.”

The world melts away at those four words, his brain shorting out as he follows his old professor from the tent and through the camp. Ingrid follows behind him, silent.

Byleth slows as they approach the healer’s tent, turning to face Felix. “He’s not in good shape. The lance was coated in poison.” Felix feels his anxiety fade to something deeper, and that sinking sensation is back again, flooding the pit of his stomach. It feels like his world has dropped out from beneath his feet, leaving him floating in a whirlwind of pain and uncertainty. “Mercedes and Lin have done all they can tonight. He’ll be okay, but recovery will be long. And painful.” Byleth takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He exhales tiredly as his eyes rove over the rest of the camp, the tents lined up in tidy rows. “As soon as he’s fit to travel, I’m sending you two back to the monastery. Manuela will be able to help him better than any of us can.”

Linhardt passes through the tent flaps, looking more exhausted than usual, his hair in disarray. “He’s awake, sort of,” he says to the three of them. “He keeps asking for you,” he directs towards Felix with a slightly bemused expression on his face. Both him and Ingrid step towards the tent, but Linhardt puts a gentle hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “One visitor at a time, though.” 

Felix is done waiting. Without checking with Ingrid, he pushes past Linhardt into the tent.

**–**

**Imperial Year 1179**

_ Tap tap tap-tap tap. _

A soft knock sounds on his door, familiar in its rhythm. Felix glances up from where he’s seated at his desk. He sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face, a scowl gracing his lips as the knocking resumes.

“Felix, open _ uppp_,” Sylvain whines from the other side of the door. “C’mon, I can see your light on.” Felix swears under his breath. He unceremoniously drops the rag soaked in polishing oil atop his sword, moving slowly towards his door. He’s reluctant to open it, sure that Sylvain is about to turn his peaceful night in on its head, but he also doesn’t want every damn student in the dormitory to hear him drunkenly making a scene.

He pulls the door open to reveal Sylvain looking flushed and smelling of wine. His hair is sloppily pushed back, the top few buttons of his shirt undone to reveal small red bruises. Felix vehemently ignores the jealous flip his stomach does upon seeing a particularly dark mark sucked beneath his jawbone. “What do you want,” he bites out, irritated at Sylvain for ruining his night, irritated at himself for allowing him to do it.

“Well hello to you too, Fe,” Sylvain grins, stretching his arms above his head in that stupid, show-offy way he does when he’s trying to flirt, or get his way, or both. Felix rolls his eyes, willing himself not to look down at the thin silver of stomach exposed from Sylvain’s stretch. His arms bracket the door and the doorway, making it impossible for Sylvain to weasel his way through. “C’mon, Fe, where’s your manners? Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” Sylvain jokes in that disingenuous way that absolutely grates on Felix’s nerves. “No. Goodnight,” he replies back shortly, moving to slam the door.

Despite being a couple of glasses of wine deep, Sylvain reacts quickly, wedging a foot between the door and the frame before he can close it all the way. Felix sighs, rolling his eyes once more before meeting Sylvain’s gaze. “Lix,” Sylvain pleads out, more of a whimper than a whisper, and Felix actively loathes himself as he caves, stepping back to allow him to stumble into his room. He closes the door quickly behind him and turns around to find Sylvain sitting on the edge of his bed. His eyes narrow as he watches Sylvain start to fumble with the laces on his boots.

“What’re you doing?” His voice comes out sharper than he intended. 

“I just– my room is so cold, I thought maybe–”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Sylvain pouts up at him, tugging off his first boot. “Please, Fe?” he begs, ripping the other off before moving to his already halfway unbuttoned shirt. Felix swallows thickly, unable to tear his eyes away from Sylvain. He feels like the worst friend in the world for letting these thoughts slink into his head, and instead chooses not to answer, letting him win again. He turns back to his interrupted task of cleaning his weapons. From behind him, the covers rustle, Sylvain sighing contentedly as he makes himself comfortable in Felix’s bed. He attempts to resume wiping down his sword with the oily rag, but he’s thoroughly distracted now.

There’s no doubt they’ve grown apart since starting at the Academy. Felix keeps himself plenty busy, devoting most of his waking hours to sparring and swordsmanship; Sylvain, with the endless rotating company of women and men alike. He remembers back to when they were younger, before Sylvain had left for school, hearing “you’re too young to understand” spill from the older boy’s lips more and more frequently as they grew older. By the time Sylvain had left, Felix had been thoroughly irritated by his newfound obsession with kissing and his horribly amateur attempts at flirting. Even so, he missed him dearly – they’d spent most of their days growing up together, and everything was much lonelier without Sylvain and Dimitri running around with him.

When Felix finally joined him at the Academy, he was disappointed to find Sylvain had grown, somehow, even more aggravating – flirting with anything that had a pulse. It seemed his childhood friend he knew and loved was gone, and in his place was… this. A Sylvain who was full of awful pickup lines and terribly timed jokes, throwing fake grins and cheesy winks around liberally. Felix had long since decided the best course of action he could pursue was to ignore him, to ignore the bubble of warm emotion in his throat whenever he turned the corner. It had worked well, to a point, but every couple of weeks or so he’d come crying to Felix, leaving his mask at the door, becoming vulnerable and soft in a way that Felix, as much as it shames him to admit it, would never say no to.

He shakes his head softly, setting the rag down gently before turning around to see Sylvain, shirtless, sheets pooling around his waist as he sits up, looking expectantly over at Felix. “C’mon, Fe, join me? Just like when we were kids?” He pleads, his brilliant grin drawing Felix in like a moth to a flame. He scoffs back even though he feels his cheeks start to heat up in a deep blush. It’s like Sylvain _ knows _ exactly how to peel all his layers back, using his flushed cheeks and bright eyes like weapons, until Felix’s willpower is gone and he’s putty in his hands. 

“You’re needy when you’re drunk,” he mumbles, methodically stripping himself of his warm jacket, leaving just his sleep shirt and leggings. Sylvain hums happily, pleased, as ever, to have gotten his way. “Scoot over.”

The beds in the Garreg Mach dormitories aren’t big by any means. He curls up into himself on the very edge, his back facing the side Sylvain’s on. Not a moment later Sylvain’s loose limbs drape themselves over Felix, pulling his back against his chest.

“Nggh, get off,” he mutters, half-heartedly pushing Sylvain away only to feel his arms wrap around him, tighter this time. Guilt bubbles up in his throat, thick and heady, making him slightly queasy. He’s guilty that Sylvain is drunk and he is not. He’s guilty for enjoying this so much, way more than he should. He’s guilty that he doesn’t want this to end, guilty that he wants to take this further than it would ever realistically go. “Please. Sylvain. Off,” he grits out as Sylvain’s thumb strokes soft circles into his exposed hipbone, dangerously close to where his cock is stirring. The situation is embarrassing enough without bringing a boner into the equation.

Sylvain huffs melodramatically, removing his hands from his stomach. Felix can almost feel him pouting behind him, and he’s equal parts ashamed and disgusted with himself for instantly missing the warmth and comfort of his arms around him. Sure, they’ve done this a few times before, typically when one of them (usually Sylvain) is drunk and upset – carefully tip-toeing the line of best friends and… whatever this was. They’d never let it go too far. The questions, emotions, sheer intimacy involved, all of it, frankly scares the hell out of Felix. It’s much simpler to not say anything at all.

“Fine, fine,” Sylvain mumbles from behind him, tucking his hands away and rolling over on his back. Felix can barely feel the proximity of his body, heat emanating from him, yet not close enough to touch.

His heart aches painfully in his chest as he lies awake, listening to the sound of Sylvain’s breathing even out. There’s a reason he came here tonight, knocked on his door, begged him to let him in. Felix sighs, turning over slowly on his side to stare up at Sylvain’s face. Sylvain’s eye peeks open, his lazy cat grin spreading over his face as he scoots closer to Felix, knowing he’s gotten his way for the third time tonight. Sylvain re-adjusts one of his arms to loop loosely around him, fingers toying with his hair.

“What happened this time?” Felix asks, almost afraid to hear the answer, as it undoubtedly has to do with some lover or another spurning his advances. It always makes his stomach ache in an awful, empty way when Sylvain tells him those types of stories.

“Ingrid and I got into it,” Sylvain answers, his tone oddly detached and unemotional. “She wants me to…” Sylvain’s face twists into a concentrated scowl, and Felix’s heart skips at the way his nose scrunches up. “Get more serious about my studies. And stop fucking around so much. To take my future seriously, and start thinking about marriage,” Sylvain’s mouth pulls into a frown, and Felix can’t help but laugh softly at him. “What, and she isn’t right?”

Sylvain’s eyes fall, sad and empty. “I don’t want to settle down,” he whines, pouty. “Especially not with some noble girl who would rather cut my crest out of me than look me in the eye.” He looks away, unwilling to meet Felix’s gaze. Their expectations, different but equally harrowing, placed on both of their shoulders – a Crest lineage to carry on, a Dukedom to inherit – were the unfortunate cards they’d been dealt in life. What either of them wanted or desired ultimately didn’t matter.

Felix hums quietly, closing his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of Sylvain twirling a lock of his hair around his long, freckled finger. Their noses are close where their heads lay on his pillow. 

“Do you ever feel like… like things could be different?” Felix peeks an eye open. Sylvain is staring past the crown of his forehead, looking tipsy and wistful. “What d’you mean?” he asks, taking full advantage of being able to stare, with no one watching, up at Sylvain’s face. He’s unquestionably handsome, even as his mouth turns into a frown again.

“I don’t know. Just… what if things didn’t have to be the way they’ve always been. If getting married and producing an heir and inheriting a title wasn’t all I was destined for…” Felix snorts lightly. Sylvain’s eyes snap down to him, brows furrowed. “What?” he asks in an annoyed voice. “Nothing. It just sounds like you want to keep fucking around forever,” Felix replies with a smirk on his face. Sylvain frowns and pulls away, drawing his hand back from where it was twisted in Felix’s locks. Part of him dies a little at the loss of contact, and he loathes himself for it.

“Really, Fe? You’ve never thought about what you’d do if you weren’t tied to any of this? If crests and heirs and houses didn’t matter?”

“Of course I’ve thought about it. There’s just no use in dreaming about a future that will never exist,” Felix snaps back, shying away from Sylvain’s actual question and rebuffing him the only way he knows how – sharp words that sting as they leave his throat.

“I guess,” he replies, sounding mournful. “I just hope that… there’s something more for me than our pre-planned futures. More for us.”

Felix swallows thickly at the implication of his words, choosing to stay quiet as Sylvain relaxes back into their shared pillow. His fingers start to play with his hair again, and Felix closes his eyes, letting himself relax into his touch as Sylvain carefully, gently undoes his hair tie, letting his messy bun spill out across the pillow.

In the morning, Felix wakes first. They’d crept closer to each other during the night, as two bodies were wont to do in the chill winter air. Sylvain’s breath is hot against his forehead as he sleepily nuzzles closer, tucking his face shamelessly into his best friend’s neck. He feels Sylvain stir and press a feather-light kiss to his forehead – so tender he could’ve dreamt it.

Neither of them pull away, and neither of them mention it later.

–

Sylvain is resting on a cot, eyes closed. His chest is bare except for the crisp white bandage plastered across his entire stomach. 

“You absolute _idiot_,” he hisses, sinking down on a stool near Sylvain’s bedside. He watches as Sylvain’s eyes flutter open, puffy and red as they search for him. Sylvain attempts to crack a grin, like this is just another one of his stupid jokes, but he winces before his brilliant smile can appear in full. Felix stares furiously down at him, jaw working as he attempts to piece together the thorough lashing he’d mentally prepared for him. “What were you thinking, scouting the woods alone?” Felix wants to slap him, shake him, make him see sense. Anger bubbles up to rage in his throat, but his insides swiftly turn cold with fear as Sylvain coughs roughly, teeth clenched against the pain.

“Maybe… maybe I did it to impress you,” Sylvain wheezes, the joke falling flat. The tips of Felix’s ears burn at the implication. “Shut up. You’re so stupid.” Sylvain smiles feebly up at him, easily rebuffing his brusque tone. “What, it takes a spear to the gut for you to cry over me?” Sylvain’s fingertips move to brush away the steady stream of tears leaking from the corners of Felix’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed them until Sylvain pointed them out.

“Goddess. I can’t believe you. You… you could’ve died,” Felix’s voice breaks as he crosses his arms over his chest, furiously wiping the traitorous tears away. He hasn’t cried like this, in front of someone else, since… since Glenn. Sylvain had been there to see those tears, too. An overwhelming wave of emotion crests in his throat, threatening to burst forth. His lower lip quivers, and he bites down on it, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to distract him from everything he’s feeling. How dare Sylvian treat his life so carelessly? How dare he put Felix through this, after all they’ve weathered together, after the promises they’ve made to one another?

“Hey.” Sylvain’s tone is soft, serious in a way it rarely is. The usual bravado and charm are gone, stripped back to something more vulnerable. It’s enough for Felix to turn his head back, gazing down at his oldest, dumbest, favorite friend. His lip gives a wobbly tremble. Sylvain moves his hand back towards him, searching for contact. His fingers curl loosely around Felix’s, stroking the back of his hand with the pad of his thumb. “But I didn’t. I didn’t break our promise, Lix.”

His anger fades to something duller, deeper, but just as painful in his chest. Heartache. Felix looks down to where their hands connect, trying to remember the last time he’d had a conversation with Sylvain that wasn’t about war, or chasing skirts, or fighting. He’s reminded of their fleeting nights, curled up around each other, at the monastery. His chest tightens, looking over the expanse of freckled skin littered with deep bruises and dark scratches. Guilt gnaws away at his insides for failing to defend him. “No, I guess you didn’t,” he breathes out. “You did get pretty fucked up, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did,” Sylvain gives a small bark of a laugh, a noise that sends shivers down Felix’s spine, followed by a deep cough. His hand releases Felix’s, only to move up, as if in slow motion, to cradle his jawline. Felix freezes, feeling like he’s underwater again, every moment languid yet charged in its intimacy. His heart thumps erratically as he stares into Sylvain’s eyes, sitting still as a stone, unsure of how to move, how to act. Sylvain’s thumb brushes across his cheek with the lightest of touches. He feels like a hare, caught in a trap. Holding his breath, unable to move.

“I don’t… I don’t want to lose you.” Felix’s eyes squeeze shut in embarrassment, cursing whichever part of his brain let that loose. He can feel himself leaning forward ever-so-slightly, drawn in towards Sylvain. His hand feels big and cold where it connects with his skin, lighting him on fire from the inside out. He feels feverish, hazy, like he’s floating in a dream. His eyes peek open to lock onto Sylvain’s cinnamon ones.

“You won’t, Fe,” Sylvain rumbles, quiet and complacent where he lies on his cot. He looks tired, lids drooping, fighting to stay awake. There’s a million things they’ve left unsaid, but all of them must wait. Felix reaches up to his cheek, grasping Sylvain’s hand firmly before bringing it – not daring to speak, unthinking of the consequences and all the ways this could go wrong – to his mouth. 

He presses a firm kiss to his curled fist. A soft smile pulls at the corners of Sylvain’s mouth as he closes his eyes, quickly being pulled under to sleep. 

“See you tomorrow,” he mumbles, moving away from where Sylvain lay, towards the tent flaps. He walks right by Ingrid and Dimitri, who are waiting outside, ignoring the questions spilling from their lips. His head positively spins as he walks through camp, feeling dizzy and punch-drunk from all of the emotions the day had wrung from him. As he settles into his cot, his hand reaches up to gingerly trace the path Sylvain’s had taken down his jawbone.

It feels twice as empty in his bed tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first fic i've written in a loooooong time + the first fic i've ever published! i just couldn't get enough of these lovesick idiots a+ support and decided they need a little ~tenderness with a touch of angst <3


	2. spinning in my head and on my pillow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: brief mention of child abuse in this chapter.

**Imperial Year 1184**

They’ve been riding for two days. 

Felix’s back positively screams in protest as he reaches out and over his head in a sweeping motion, attempting to shake the fuzzy static from his elbows. As he stretches, he realizes that Sylvain has probably fallen asleep again, his breath slow and even against where his back presses to Felix’s chest. They’ve been riding double the entire way back to the monastery on the largest mount their camp had to offer. 

Sylvain’s red mop of hair lolls back, not quite hitting his shoulder. Felix scowls, but he’s reluctant to shake him off. He’d been fading in and out of sleep for most of the journey back home. The moments he has been awake have been sleepy and nonsensical thanks to the pain tonics Felix has diligently fed him every night. They _ really _ should switch spots, he muses, sitting upright to peer over Sylvain’s shoulder, arms sore from wrapping them around his broad back to grip the reins. The wound in his stomach was deep and sore still, though, flinching away at even the lightest of touches. So he holds him as gently as he can, chest pressed to back, perching his chin lightly on his shoulder. 

The sky is slowly growing dark around them, yellow light fading to cornflower blue. Felix sighs, guiding them around a bend at a trot. He knows they’re close to Garreg Mach, but not close enough to make it there by nightfall, and he’ll be damned if Sylvain goes flying off the horse because of an unseen stone on the trail. He moves them towards a safe-ish looking patch of trees away from the roadside. The roads leading to the monastery are mostly safe by this point, reclaimed by the Holy Kingdom and the Church, but there’s really no telling what beasts could be lurking about. 

They come to a halt near the thicket of trees. Sylvain makes no move to dismount, so Felix nudges him. “Syl. Wake up. We’re making camp.”

Sylvain stirs, leaning backwards into Felix, making his back arch backwards uncomfortably. He winces, dropping the reins. “Hey, Lix,” he answers sleepily, soft and compliant as Felix helps him dismount. It’s so, so selfish of him to think, but he loves Sylvain like this – vulnerable and bare, without any of his stupid jokes and false smiles dripping from his lips.

Felix busies himself setting up their meager camp, pitching their tent with practiced ease. Once the bedroll is laid out, he calls out. “Sylvain, c’mere.”

Sylvain stumbles into the tent, his smile sweet in a way that completely disarms Felix. He settles easily onto the pile of furs and blankets, stretching out like a cat after a long nap. He grins hazily up at Felix, and he tries to ignore the way it makes his heart speed up and his ears burn with embarrassment. Instead, he starts on the routine they’ve followed for the past couple of days – the one where he changes Sylvain’s bandage and cleans his wound and spoons medicine and bits of dried meat and fish into him until they drift off to sleep.

He unbuttons Sylvain’s shirt with deft fingers, peeling back his bandage slowly, carefully. On the surface, the wound is healing surprisingly well, knitting itself back together rapidly. Every time he sees it his heart skips up to his mouth, feeling helpless by exactly how _ close _ he had been to losing him – less than an inch, by his guess. 

He’s distracted by the feeling of Sylvain’s fingers moving clumsily through his hair. His ears burn as he looks up to see Sylvain, gazing up at him like he’s the most wondrous thing in the world. His stomach turns nauseatingly, loathing how this meaningless, drug-induced touch makes him feel inside, but at the same time, he can’t bring himself to push Sylvain’s hand away. 

Felix efficiently completes his tasks, trying his hardest to be careful, if not gentle. When he’s done, Sylvain’s face is still turned towards him, but now his eyes are closed. Felix can’t help but smile, pulling a fur up and over to cover him. He lies down on his own bedroll, painstakingly taking care to not jostle or disturb him.

That night, he dreams of fire and blood.

He doesn’t remember come morning.

—

**Imperial Year 1180**

The last time they shared a horse was when Miklan died.

Sylvain, broken in disbelief, kneeling beside his brother’s mangled body, wasn’t responding to any of his classmates’ attempts to get him back to camp. Dimitri and Byleth were each ignored, and he’d snapped at Ingrid’s gentle pleas to get him away from the carnage. Now he was staring down with dead eyes at the dead beast who used to be his kin with only Felix by his side, everyone else having slowly trickled back to camp.

He stands behind where Sylvain kneels, a soft breeze wafting the scent of blood and flesh and mud into his nose. His hand is resting lightly on Sylvain’s pauldron. He takes it as a good sign he hasn’t been shaken off yet. Sylvain’s silent tears subsided some time ago, and now he just stares. Felix dispassionately watches the sun set over the bloody battlefield, beautiful in a twisted, unholy way. Night is falling quickly when he finally decides to kneel down next to Sylvain. “C’mon, Syl. Let’s go home,” he murmurs, pulling him up with an arm around his waist. Sylvain follows, apathetic and compliant in his arms.

They mount Sylvain’s horse together, Felix holding the reins, perched further up in the saddle. As he carefully guides them back to camp, he feels Sylvain settle like a heavy blanket over him, his cheek on his shoulder, arms encircling his waist. His heart burns, aching for Sylvain’s loss acutely in a deep, too-real, too-relatable way. The Gautiers' brotherly relationship couldn’t have been more different than his relationship with Glenn, but at least he hadn’t been the one on the other end of the sword.

They approach camp at a trot, and Felix dismounts swiftly, Sylvain following close behind. The ride seems to have calmed him, if only a little bit – he’d always thrived best around horses. He leads him to his tent, hand gentle on the back of his armor. He can’t remember the last time Sylvain was so meek, so quiet, silence filling the air typically filled with bad jokes. Felix can’t believe that he kind of misses them.

He guides Sylvain to his cot, where he begins the lengthy process of helping him remove his armor. Sylvain’s fingers, clumsy and numb, catch on one of the straps, pulling feebly before Felix takes pity on him and pushes his hands away. “I’ve got it,” he says roughly, taking over and easily pulling off one of his gauntlets. They’re both quiet as Felix completes the task with practiced hands, reminiscent of his days as a squire. Piece by piece, Felix takes him apart, carefully piling everything the corner of his tent. Once he pulls the last greave off of his calf, he turns to go.

“W- Wait,” Sylvain croaks at his turned back, the first words he’s spoken in hours. Felix pauses on the threshold, hand outstretched to push back the tent flap. He quirks his head back to look at Sylvain, looking absolutely miserable, his head hung low. “Don’t go,” he whispers, shamefully turning his head away, scrubbing raw fingers over his face, digging beneath his eye. Felix's heart cracks in two at the sight. He can’t bring himself to put up a fight, not here, not now, not for something so trivial. He turns back, bringing his fingers up to unfasten his cloak and leather armor.

He nudges Sylvain gently to the side of his cot. Sylvain complies easily, and Felix settles down on the edge, pulling a pile of blankets over them. The cot is small, not meant for two, but they’ve managed worse. He rearranges their limbs until they’re in a halfway comfortable position – curled around each other, Sylvain’s chin resting on top of his head, Felix’s face tucked into his neck. Sylvain’s hands come up to bracket his hips, pulling him unbearably close. 

They’d laid like this together when Glenn died, too – inconsolable and lost, they’d gravitated towards each other, finding the smallest sliver of comfort in the familiar way they fit together. Except before they’d gotten here, he’d screamed and cried and thrown things, raging until he saw red before collapsing into Sylvain’s arms, his soul broken and horribly twisted and forever altered. Felix reaches up, stroking a finger along the shell of his ear, lazily combing the knots from his hair. Sylvain settles into his touch, finally relaxing, releasing the tension evident in his shoulders and back.

He’s nearly asleep when Sylvain whispers, “Lix?” He sighs deeply through his nose, trying to push down his irritation at being brought back to consciousness after being so, so close to sleep.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad it’s over.”

He doesn’t have to ask what Sylvain means. Having spent most of their childhood together, they’d been privy to the not-so pretty parts of each others lives. For Felix, it’d been the ugly way he’d lashed out after Glenn’s death, growing moody and bitter and nearly impossible for others to be around. For Sylvain, it had been the way Miklan tormented him, leaving bruises and shallow cuts all over his body with his little “games”. The thought of it still makes Felix sick to his stomach.

“I know,” he replies back quietly. 

“He earned it. He did.” Sylvain’s mouth twists into a horrible frown, made ugly by hate. His tone is pleading, as if he’s begging Felix to understand his worst thoughts, buried deep down inside of him.

“I know, Syl. I know,” Felix does his best to soothe, to inject every ounce of patience and understanding and _ love _ into the way he repeats himself emphatically.

Sylvain curls in closer, burying his face into the top of his head. He feels a wet, quiet tear fall on his forehead, rolling down the side of his face, into his ear.

“Do you ever think about the promise we made when we were kids?” Sylvain whispers, sounding absolutely wrecked.

“Yeah. I do.”

They’re both quiet, reflecting on the oath they made to each other over and over throughout the years – each one worded a little differently than the last, but all ultimately amounting to the same thing: “I will not die without you.” They had whispered those words to each other in the dead of night, hurled them spitefully during fights, joked and teased with them, and everything in between. Those words were weapons, honed to a fine edge. The promise was a heavy, weighty thing they carried together, designed to cut each of them deep, where it hurt most.

“Do you still… even after…?” Sylvain let the incomplete question hang in the air between them, sounding self-conscious. Felix glances up at him. He looks lost, broken, torn apart from the inside out.

“Yeah. That hasn’t changed.” He resumes working his fingers through Sylvain’s hair. “I’ll follow you wherever you go,” he reassures him, suddenly struck at how true those words are. Emotion wells up, hot and heady, in his chest. He’s so, so close to coming out and saying it, letting the horrible secret he’s kept inside him for years and years out – but he can’t bring himself to do it. His tongue freezes, painfully numb, unable to form the words that would theoretically set him free.

Sylvain lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his nose into his hair, clutching him closer. Felix shuts his mouth and lets him.

“You too, Fe. Wherever you go.”

—

Sylvain wakes up slowly. His eyes blink blearily as he clears the sleep from them, his surroundings slowly coming into focus around him. He’s cold, in a vague sort of way, his fingers numb as he reaches up to rub his eyes. And he hurts, _ Goddess _ he hurts – all over, every inch of him aches, but none more than his core, which throbs as if in warning as he inhales a deep breath through gritted teeth.

His mind is hazy, struggling to piece together the events that led him here – which, he recognizes now as the monastery infirmary. His memories are faint and spotty, slipping through his fingers easily as water as he tries to hold onto them long enough to remember. Sharp iron, hot blood, piercing pain. The warm glow of magic seeping into his stomach, setting him aflame and burning him up from the inside out. Hot breath, warming his fingertips. Arms, strong and sinewy, the only constant comfort as he sways in and out of consciousness. Hands, cradling the curve of his jaw, carefully, reverently. Felix, unbelievably tender, in all the ways he’s craved for years. 

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about this before. He has, a dozen times a day. While they’re training side by side, close enough to see the sweat drip down the side of his face, brows knitted together in concentration. During class, watching his lips pursed in concentration, tongue creeping out the side of his mouth as he scribbles down notes on parrying techniques. Fighting, out on the battlefield, awed by his speed and precision as he whirls, cutting down soldier after soldier. At night, alone in his room, his face the last image in his head when he falls asleep, the first person he thinks of when he wakes. Felix, Felix, _ Felix _.

A deep, familiar feeling of regret pangs in his stomach. 

He turns on his side to face the door, groaning as he does so. The pain isn’t completely unbearable, probably thanks to the various bottles of tonics lined up near his bedside. The room is empty, weak sunshine and a light breeze blowing through an open window. The rest of the army must still be out on the battlefield, marching ever-forward towards Enbarr to fulfill Dimitri’s vengeance. His head still hurts when he thinks of Edelgard and all of his old classmates.

Breathing in and out slowly, he manages to assess the damage done to his body. Aside from the tender wound in his stomach, he feels surprisingly okay – achy and bruised, nothing he hasn't felt before. The sound of the door creaking interrupts him as Felix darts in, quietly closing the door behind him. He cracks a small grin, feeling uncharacteristically shy.

“Hi,” he says, unsure of what else to say. Felix’s face, unreadable as ever, looks impassively down at him. His mask is back on, stubbornly blocking everyone around him out. Not like that’s ever stopped him before. Sylvain tries again. “Thank you, for… for getting me here. For everything,” he finishes lamely, turning his head slightly, unable to look at Felix’s blank expression any longer. He scrubs a hand over his face, heart racing as he waits for Felix to say something, anything.

“You nearly died, Sylvain.”

He feels his face crumple, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He feels raw and stripped down under Felix’s gaze in a completely unfamiliar way; no jokes or pickup lines to hide behind. “I know. I…” he huffs, turning to hide his face in the side of his hand, embarrassed and heartbroken and so, so damn grateful. “I was stupid. I’m sorry.” The apology feels thick and clumsy on his tongue and he sniffles, feeling helpless. Felix watches him for a few more moments before sinking to sit next to him on the edge of the bed, expression softening the tiniest bit.

“We’re losing, Fe,” he croaks out. Sure, they’d won the battle, but just barely. The weight of being led by a half-mad king and a half-dead messiah was crushing them slowly. He felt like the world’s biggest idiot that it had taken him getting speared through by an Empire lance to grapple with that. “The kingdom is going to fall, and us with it,” he says slowly, tasting the treason on his tongue. 

He startles a bit when he feels Felix’s callused hand cover his own on the bedsheets. His expression is broken, strife with heartache. “I know. I know.”

He remembers Felix whispering those words into his neck, soft and tender after he killed Miklan. He remembers the feeling of Felix’s hand curled around his, pressing a firm kiss to his fingers. He decides right then that he wants to chase that feeling forever – damn the war, damn their parents, damn it all. They’re essentially two dead men walking. So fuck it. If he’s going to vulnerable, then he might as well go all the way.

“Fe…” his eyes are glassy. “Stay?” he asks quietly. Felix’s face softens.

The mattress dips as Felix crawls into bed next to him. He feels an arm sling around his waist, gingerly, carefully. His breath is hot against his nape, his body radiating warmth. Felix curls around him, toes pressing into his bare calves. The strongest sense of nostalgia overwhelms him – it’s just like how they used to fall asleep as kids, and later, during their loneliest nights together as students at the Academy. His head spins as he realizes they haven’t touched like this in five years.

A feeling rises up to punch him in the gut. He’s scared, too scared to say anything, too scared to ask him – what is this? What are we doing? What does this mean? 

So he stays quiet.

He stays quiet as Felix’s breath slows down and evens out. He stays quiet as Felix’s bony fingers carefully stroke back and forth over the patch of bare skin of his hip where his sleep shirt has ridden up. He stays quiet, stubborn and unwilling to jeopardize this – whatever this is – even if they end up dying tomorrow. He stays quiet as they drift asleep, legs entwined, pressed close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really! just taking the bed sharing thing to the limit huh?
> 
> also, hi POV change!!! it’s weirdly challenging (but fun) writing from Sylvain’s POV. you’ll prob see more of that later!!!
> 
> next chapter will be where this fic earns its rating :-)


	3. you are my best friend, and i don't want this to end

**Imperial Year 1180**

“Again.”

Felix’s voice rings out imperiously across the training grounds. Sylvain’s sweating, his lance a few feet from where he lies on the ground.

“C’mon, Felix,” he whines, tipping his head back against the dusty floor, breathing hard. “It’s past dinner time.”

Felix kicks his calf, hard enough to make him wince. “Ow,” he spits out, annoyed, lifting his head to meet his gaze. He’s staring down impassively at him, his mouth a thin line.

“Again,” Felix repeats, his eyes narrowing down at him. He can’t help but feel pinned by that molten copper gaze, squirming uncomfortably beneath it. 

“Fine. But after this, we’re getting drinks.”

Felix huffs, not quite a laugh, but definitely not a ‘no,’ which is enough of an answer for him. Sylvain gets to his feet, unconsciously reaching up to ruffle his hair back into place as he jogs over to retrieve his lance. He settles back comfortably, weight in his heels as he anticipates Felix’s attack. 

He’d agreed to train with Felix when they’d been curled up against each other one night a few weeks back. In the moment, Sylvain would’ve said yes to anything Felix had tipsily suggested, no matter how inane – anything to keep him content and rambling on.

Now it doesn’t feel like his greatest idea. 

Felix slices dangerously close to his knee, leaving him scrambling to block with the butt end of his practice spear. Before he can comprehend the blur of Felix’s feet, he’s been rapped hard on his opposite shoulder with the wooden blade. 

“Fuck, Fe!” He grimaces, rubbing his shoulder as he glares at Felix. There’s a faintly satisfied smile playing across his lips. 

“You keep letting your guard slip on your left side. Watch it better next time.” Felix replies disdainfully, moving towards the weapons rack to put away the wooden sword. Sylvain follows after, still rubbing his shoulder. 

He chooses not to reply as he unbuckles his leather padding, wincing as his hands take inventory of the copious bruises Felix has left on his body.

Night has fallen and the monastery is quiet by the time they leave the training grounds. Sylvain steers them towards the dining hall, Felix trailing along behind him. A patchwork quilt of stars hangs above them and the night air is cool and crisp. It reminds him of springtime in Faerghus.

He quickly gathers a bundle of objects from the empty kitchen – a loaf of bread, a rind of cheese, apples and figs plucked from the shady trees of the monastery. Felix meets him with two bottles and two cups, and he grins. “That’s more like it, Fe!” Felix just rolls his eyes back at him, pushing past him towards the door. 

His sweat is finally starting to dry as they sprawl out on the dock, the air cool and sweet on his skin. They eat and drink in companionable silence, each watching the starlight reflect off the pond, eyes chasing the silvery fish darting beneath the surface. 

Sylvain’s hands are busy uncorking the second bottle of wine when Felix speaks, the sharp edge of his voice softened by alcohol. “You really need to practice more, you know.”

He frowns, glancing sideways at his friend. “I don’t know if anyone’s told you this before, but there’s more to life than training,” he teases back, brushing Felix’s concern off flippantly. Felix’s teeth are worrying over his lower lip, and damn if that isn’t wholly distracting. 

Felix scoffs back at him. “I can’t have your back all the time,” his brows crease as he turns away from Sylvain’s gaze. A warm feeling tingles in his limbs. He thinks it’s from the wine, but the implication of Felix’s words make him burn. “Aw, Fe, are you worried about me?” He jokes, nudging him playfully with his shoulder. 

The silence stretches out too long to be comfortable. Sylvain glances over, watches him take a long pull from his cup. Hope and dread twist together in his gut, and he buries himself in his own cup, willing it away. 

“Yes.” 

Felix’s tone is serious but not biting. He says it plainly, matter-of-fact. The word sinks like a stone into the pit of Sylvain’s stomach.

“You slack on your training. You’re always skipping class to mess around with some girl or another. And it affects you in battle. How many injuries have you gotten in this last moon alone?” He winces away from him but Felix continues, voice rising, passionate. “You can’t throw your life away just because your brother did. You’re better than that. It’s pathetic.” 

His stomach turns as he looks out across the dark pond. He sips his wine, quiet, cowed by the truth. 

“What, now you have nothing to say?” Felix teases cruelly. Sylvain’s cheeks burn as he refills his cup, hands imperceptibly shaking as a bit sloshes over the side. 

“What do you want me to say?” He replies, forcing himself to be cool, but the crack in his voice betrays him. “Sounds to me like you’ve got it all figured out.” His voice doesn’t sound like his own – it’s unfamiliarly bitter and sarcastic to his own ears. 

“I don’t think I do, and you know that,” Felix replies, uncharacteristically soft. There’s pressure on his right arm as Felix leans against him, melancholic. 

“I don’t actually like any of those girls,” he murmurs. 

Felix tilts his head up to peer at him. Sylvain can’t find it in himself to meet his eyes. “I know.”

“I…” he squeezes his eyes shut, gripping his cup tightly as he attempts to formulate thoughts he’s never spoken to another soul. He still can’t tell if it’s the wine that’s making him pour his entire soul out, his deepest insecurity, or if the truth of Felix’s words triggered him to come clean, all the way.

“It just… I know it’s dumb, but it feels good. Having someone care about me. Even if it’s just my looks. Or my Crest. Or my name.” He chuckles, bitter. “Even if it’s only for a night.” 

He speaks out towards the pond, towards the fish – he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to keep going if he met Felix’s eyes. “I didn’t have anyone to care about me – not like you had Glenn. Miklan and I… we never had what you had. I was so lonely here without you, Fe. I was scared. I missed you.”

His first weeks at Garreg Mach are blurry, smeared with pangs of loneliness and confusion and crushing self-consciousness. The easiest thing had been to throw himself into finding company using the means he knew – a practiced smile, honeyed with nothing but false sweetness. The routine of filling his sheets with a new companion each night hadn’t faded when Felix started at the Academy a year later.

It had pushed them apart, but by then Sylvain had grown so addicted to the feeling of affection, of skin on skin, of the easy games involved, to stop. 

They’re both quiet, his confession finally shaken loose from his chest, blanketing them as they sit side-by-side on the dock. Felix’s shifts, leaning further into his shoulder. He feels Felix’s breath, like a paper fan, gust over his neck. It smells like wine and figs and weapons oil. “I missed you too,” he breathes, nose pressing into Sylvain’s ear. 

Sylvain lets out a shuddering breath, tilting his head back to stare blindly up at the sky. He feels wrung out, exhausted, his shield punched through by Felix’s words. He’s brought back down to earth by the hot puffs of air against his throat, and he shifts so that Felix is curled into his side, warm and familiar and  _ home _ . 

__

**Imperial Year 1184**

Sylvain wakes first. 

It’s quiet and dark in the infirmary, cold air creeping in through the still-open window. His stomach aches, but the pain has miraculously faded to a faint throb. He doesn’t have to check it himself to know it’s finally done knitting itself back together. Involuntarily, he curls closer to the source of heat in his bed, pressing Felix closer against his chest. 

He blinks the sleep from his eyes, turning to stare down at Felix’s face. It’s relaxed and calm in a way he rarely sees during the daytime, reminding him of when they were kids – carefree and happy and always making each other laugh. They’d migrated closer during the night. Felix’s hand rested lightly on his chest, his other looped loosely around his waist. Sylvain’s own arm had gathered Felix up close, like he was something precious. 

The events of the past week have him feeling raw, vulnerable, in a way he rarely is. The last time they’d spent so much time together was years ago, before the war broke out, when they were both students at the Academy. They’ve fought together in skirmishes in the five years since, of course – Gautier was right next to Fraldarius on the map and they often came to each other’s aid. It had killed Sylvain to watch Felix grow up from afar – hair growing long, muscles turning lean and sinewy, his face angular and sharp in ways it had never been in their boyhood. It was a rare treat to have him close enough, sharing a bed, feeling his breath ghost over his skin.

There’s something so unbearably sweet about the faint smile on Felix’s face as he sleeps. Without thinking, he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Felix’s forehead. 

“Mm. Syl,” he hears Felix breathe out in his sleep. His face is turned upwards towards Sylvain like a flower seeking sunlight, his eyes squeezed shut and brows furrowed. “What’re you doing,” Felix slurs, shifting deliciously against him.

Sylvain freezes, petrified. He’s been caught in the unmistakable act of intimacy, lips hovering a hair’s breadth from Felix’s forehead. It’s not like he’s never pressed a peck to his brow before, back when they wrapped themselves up in each other like this at school, but neither of them ever,  _ ever,  _ acknowledged it. The way their fingertips found their way into the hollows of collarbones, the rise and fall between ribs, the bony ridges of wrists and spines and ankles – this was their forever unspoken language, something only the two of them would ever understand. 

“Hey. I didn’t say to stop,” Felix whispers, voice made scratchy by sleep, cheeks aflame. Sylvain stares down, his heart hammering hard, threatening to burst from his chest. It’s like they’re both young again, and they’re standing at the edge of the lake by Sylvain’s house, fingers entwined, staring into each other’s eyes, daring the other to jump first. It’s something big, something they’ve danced around for years, something they can never take back. Sylvain’s stomach does front flips, his mind racing through memory upon memory of holding each other, comforting each other,  _ screaming _ angrily at each other, for fucks sake, dotted so liberally throughout his life. Felix stares back, pupils blown wide around a thin rim of amber.

He’s dreamt of this for so long.

Which is why it’s both easy and the most difficult thing in the world.

Sylvain moves slowly, barely daring to blink. A warm hand darts up to curl around his jaw, pulling his face down roughly to swiftly close the gap between them.

He nearly loses his nerve the split second before their lips can crash together – Felix’s face is so close, he can see every pore, his eyes are absolutely  _ burning _ a hole into his own – but the thought is wiped away just as quickly as it forms as their lips crash together, messy, hard, bruising. Felix inhales sharply through his nose, letting out the smallest whimper. It takes everything within him to pull away, a single strand of spit connecting their lips. He brings his hand up, gentle in contrast to Felix’s needy grab, cradling the perfect curve of his neck, thumb stroking against cheek. “Gods, Felix,” he breathes out, hardly realizing he’d been holding his breath. His hand tips Felix’s chin, delicate and tender, back to him. 

Felix melts beneath him, licking hot and insistent into his mouth, seemingly determined to single-handedly tear him apart. He presses a strangled moan into Felix’s mouth as they shift against each other, fingers twisting in inky hair. 

They break apart – after minutes or after hours, Sylvain can’t tell which – panting against each other’s wet lips. They’re gazing into each other’s eyes when he can’t help but let out a short huff of laughter, grabbing him tight and burying his face into his neck, smearing kisses down the long column of his throat. 

“What?” Felix asks, annoyed, pulling back to look at him. “Nothing,” he smiles against his neck. “I just… I never knew,” he replies simply, tilting his face up to look into Felix’s again. 

“Fool,” Felix mumbles, without any of the usual sting. Felix’s hands brush through his hair, soft and tender. “How long?” he asks, his kisses turning frantic, peppering them sharp and hot along his neck. His own voice sounds deep and throaty as he begs, “How long, Fe?” Felix tenses beneath him as he nudges his knee between his thighs. 

Felix thrusts shallowly into where their hips meet, letting out a half-strangled sob. “Forever, Sylvain,” he chokes out, pressing hard kisses into his jaw, grasping his face, digging into his hair. Blunted nails dig into his face where Felix’s fingertips curl into him. He feels feverish, like he’s been lit on fire. Burning feels euphoric. 

Felix pulls away, tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. “It’s always been you, you idiot.”

Nothing has ever completely and wholly ripped Sylvain apart like this. Felix’s words are as sharp as his sword, gutting him from the inside out, his insides spilling forth in a hot, slippery mess, laid bare before them. A wild, strangled sob slips from his lips, unbidden. Felix’s chest bellows against him, gasping for breath like  _ he’s  _ the one who was impaled by those words. They kiss, desperate and starving, attempting to take back all the time they’ve wasted.

Felix grows desperate, looking possessed and half-mad as his hands roam across him – hot on his cheeks, twisting in his hair, dragging down his neck to tug at his collar. His fingers bruise where they press at him, insistent, purple trails embedded into his skin. He’s taken the task of mapping every part of Sylvain like he takes every task – seriously, thoroughly, enthusiastically. Sylvain feels like the shards of him had fallen apart a long time ago, and he’s only now getting put back together. He winces as Felix’s hands ghost over his bandaged stomach.

“Fuck, Sylvain,  _ shit  _ I’m sorry,” Felix rambles into his lips, brows creasing as he pulls away, hands cupping his face. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, pulling away to suck an open-mouthed kiss into Felix’s neck, nibbling marks into his skin. Felix whimpers against him. “We’ve got time.”

They don’t, not really. They could both die tomorrow – he almost did last week – but the lie tastes sweet on his tongue. 

He relaxes his neck, letting his head fall back onto the pillow. Felix follows, his hands circling his face, running over the dips and curves of him, watching him like he’s memorizing something important. His breathing slows, feeling young and full, leaning into a touch he unreservedly trusts. Sylvain had perfected the art of becoming someone you’re not early on. How deeply soothing it feels to let his guard down and leave his mask at the door.

Sylvain shifts his leg, letting out a loud moan as his hips buck against Felix’s, having brushed up against the growing bulge underneath his leggings. Felix looks up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, an embarrassed blush fanning across his cheeks. “Hey, I’ve got you,” he soothes, pulling him into another embrace after feeling Felix tense up beneath him. He combs his fingers through his hair, gently undoing the hair tie limply holding up the last bit of Felix’s messy bun.

“Shut up.”

He just chuckles, ducking down to grin into his neck, letting his kisses trail unhurriedly down and across his neck. Felix’s breath hitches as he licks a heavy stripe across his clavicle, politely asking for permission as he runs up against the neckline of his shirt. In a heartbeat, they’re both struggling, frantic fumbling towards sweet  _ relief  _ as their bare chests touch. His wound aches slightly, as if reminding him of what had pushed each of them to tonight.

“F-fuck,  _ yes, _ ” Felix keens as Sylvain laves his tongue across one nipple. He’s doing all he can to imprint this to memory – the salt of sweat on his skin, the weave of Felix’s fingers through his hair, the little whimpers tumbling from his lips, the pebble of Felix’s skin beneath him – but it’s hard when everything is hazy, smeared by lust. Felix grinds his hips into him, more purposeful this time. His hands roam all over him, grazing his ass, clutching at his hip unabashedly, where Felix’s are a little shyer – one hand fisting in the sheets, the other tangling in his hair.

“So good, you’re so good for me,” he pants, mouth biting light kisses into the taut skin of Felix’s stomach. He pauses to glance up, but immediately regrets it, unbearably distracted and turned on by the sight above him – Felix’s eyes squeezed shut, fists gripping the sheets, hair spread messy and dark in an unholy halo around his face.

“Please, Fe, I want, can I–” he rasps out, dragging his tongue over the waistband of his leggings, hand clutching at his hip, questioning. “Nggh, Sylvain, yes, yes,” Felix sobs as he pulls down his leggings and smalls, exposing his hard cock to leak and bounce against his stomach. Sylvain can only tease him for a few moments, pressing lavacious kisses to everywhere but where he needs attention – his stomach, his thighs – before moving to take the tip of him into his mouth. 

Felix is flushed to his ears, whining pitifully as tears leak from the corners of his eyes. Sylvain bobs his head, he tastes like sweat and heat and arousal and his own cock gives a hard twitch. He takes him deep, his tongue flicking around Felix’s hard cock. “Fuck, Sylvain,  _ fuck- _ !” A hand pushes, insistent, on his shoulder, and Sylvain pulls away, drooling spit and precome. Felix is shaking beneath him, needy and weak as he pulls him back up, hissing at the cool air on his oversensitive cock.

Sylvain leans in to kiss him slow and soft, his hands bracketing Felix’s slim hips as he whimpers against his lips. “I’m sorry, I just– I want it to last,” Felix pants out between the exchange of kisses. 

“Shh, I’ve got you. I wanna make you feel good.”

He’s prodding his tongue deeper into Felix’s mouth, licking into him. “Tell me how to make you feel good,” he purrs, gasping as Felix’s hand presses, clumsy and wanting against the tent in his pants. 

“Wanna taste you,” Felix mumbles shyly, and  _ holy fuck  _ if that doesn’t absolutely destroy him. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive the inevitable peak of this, but at this point he doesn’t really care. 

“Yes,  _ Gods yes, _ Fe–”

When Felix palms his cock through the thin cotton of his pants, he swears he can see stars. “More, p– please,” he pants, in awe as Felix slithers down the length of his body, pushing him onto his back. “So polite,” Felix teases down at him, and Sylvain doesn’t have a brain cell left in him to do anything but moan wantonly, squirming on the sheets. Felix leaves a trail of dark bruises down his body, skipping over his stomach to suck wet patches into the front of his pants. Everything starts to build unbearably fast when Felix unlaces him, pulls him out, strokes him languidly. Sylvain reaches down, twisting to find Felix’s cock, hard and leaking. He’s feverish, half bent over Felix’s back, gritting his teeth as he attempts enough focus to match his hands to the rhythm of Felix’s lips on his cock. 

He can’t find it in himself to wrench his eyes open as Felix laps his tongue over his head, knowing it would be too much, too soon, and the last thing he wants is for this to end too quickly. “Fu– uck,  _ fuck.”  _ Felix gives a throaty moan around his cock, his nose buried down to his pubic bone. The vibrations start to spin him out of control, his grip on Felix becoming erratic and jerky as he’s brought closer to relief by his mouth.

One sharp suck brings him tumbling over the edge into Felix’s mouth. He gives Felix a quick succession of firm tugs to bring him along with, making a mess against his thigh. They’re both gasping, Sylvain staring blankly down at the sight of Felix panting against his thigh.

He comes down from his peak quicker than Felix, who he gathers up in his arms. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he whispers into the crown of his forehead as he shivers and pants into his chest, Sylvain’s own spend leaking from his lips. Felix is limp, and it takes Sylvain a moment to realize there are tears leaking out of his eyes, completely broken and overwhelmed. 

Sylvain noses his way to his face, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses where the tear tracks wet his skin. Felix gives him a weak smile, eyes still closed, riding out the last of the aftershocks. Sylvain runs his hands up and down his chest, his back, his shoulders, soothing and gentle. He leans in for a kiss, tasting himself on Felix’s lips.

“You good?”

Felix huffs a laugh, cracking his eyes open to smile at him, warm and fond.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew!!! they went there, folks! i have one (maybe two) more chapters left.
> 
> comments + kudos make my day n keep me goin!!! <3


	4. i'm not scared of dying, i'm just overwhelmed

**Imperial Year 1178**

“I don’t want to go home,” Sylvain says around bites of apple. 

The sun slides slowly past the mountain tops. It’s golden hour. From up here, everything glows – the yellow, curled leaves, Sylvain’s hair, so bright and saturated Felix almost has to look away. 

They’re up in the giant oak overlooking the Fraldarius estate. Scaling the tree was easy, their lanky limbs outgrown, legs dangling above the dead leaves. They’d spent their last day together sparring, sweaty amateur tangles that left them laughing and breathless. When Sylvain left, Felix was left with the Fraldarius soldiers to practice with, all of whom he could best in his sleep. 

Felix bites into his apple, tart and bitter with a subtle sweet aftertaste. He’s swinging his legs on either side of a thick branch, his back resting against the solid weight of the oak’s trunk. Sylvain is further out on a limb, elbows on his knees. He lets the apple core fall, a soft _ whump _when it hits the ground.

Felix looks to him, eyes narrowed as he takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. 

“You could just stay here until you have to leave for the Academy,” he offers, a hopeful spark catching in his chest. 

Sylvain grimaces, wiping his fingers on his thigh. “Nah. There are… suitors… my father wants me to meet before I leave.” His eyes pinch shut and he runs a hand through his hair. 

The flame sputters and dies just as quickly as it caught. 

He scowls, diverting his eyes from Sylvain. He looks boyishly handsome up here in their childhood hideout, with all his long limbs and tousled hair and sun-kissed freckles. Felix watches him reach a hand up to twist another apple from its stem, biting into it, crisp and forward and careless.

“I’d rather stay with you, though,” Sylvain beams at him, a bright smile spreading across his face.

Felix’s heart squirms in his chest, full of emotions he doesn’t quite have words for yet. They feel different, new, and he’s yet to meet another person who sparks the same feeling within him. He smiles back at Sylvain. 

“Me too.”

—

**Imperial Year 1184**

Felix always feels most alive on the battlefield. 

It isn’t bloodlust, not like Dimitri – it’s more of a complete calm. The only place the frantic thoughts go away, even just for a little bit, and all that matters is him and a sword. He neither likes nor abhors killing people, but there’s something deeply hypnotic when his body acts on autopilot, making decisions in the blink of an eye without deliberation. 

He feels ironically clean as he wipes his blade on a dead man’s shirt. His mission had been easy enough, taking care of a small group of Empire soldiers camped out in one of the passes Dimitri wanted open to funnel troops through tomorrow.

Tomorrow. He’d been preoccupied all day, thinking about tomorrow. They were slated to march on Enbarr, and the mere thought of it twisted his stomach into knots. The Holy Kingdom had pulled away with some major, unexpected triumphs in the last couple of moons, but the looming inevitability of death struck hard at a part of him he’d buried deep – the part of him that screamed to take Sylvain and run as far away as they could.

But he wouldn’t. None of them would. Maybe that made them all fools (it probably did), but Felix had decided a long, long time ago that life wasn’t worth living without Sylvain. They’d made a promise. If keeping it made him a sucker, then so be it.

The last supper before Enbarr was a raucous affair. It seemed that everyone had similar thoughts – if this was potentially their last chance to get their kicks, nobody wanted to pass up on it. Felix watches Ashe press up comfortably into Dedue, Annette and Mercedes’ hands entwined beneath the table. He even thinks he caught Dimitri’s gaze lingering a little too long on Byleth from where they sit across from each other.

Wine flows easily, and the mood soon turns light – as light as it can be, anyways, pretending like they probably won’t die tomorrow. He gets a little fuzzier with each cup, and soon he’s leaning unsteadily into Sylvain’s shoulder, uncaring of the glances getting thrown their way.

Sylvain, for his part, grins down at him, his smile gleaming white against freckled lips. Felix feels dizzy, overwhelmed and oversensitive all at once. His mind cycles through all of the possible outcomes of tomorrow. Too many, and there’s only one he’ll be okay with.

He could get hurt; Sylvain could get hurt. He could die, leaving Sylvain alone, or vice versa. They could both die, which wouldn’t actually be the worst, he supposes. And finally, the unlikely horse he so desperately wants to bet on: they both make it out alive.

Suddenly, his chest is tight, the tent too stifling, the laughter and voices and tender glances too much, too _ human _, for him to bear. Tears spring, unbidden, to his eyes. He stands, abruptly leaving the table, leaving behind nothing more than a muttered “bye,” as he flees the tent.

He seeks refuge on the edge of camp, walking blindly towards the sunset. Everyone’s busy celebrating what very well might be the last night of their lives, so it isn’t hard to slip out of the hustle and bustle and down towards the stream they were camped on.

Which is where Sylvain finds him, back pressed up against a warm rock. He’s staring blankly up at the sky, focusing on getting his breathing under control, when he feels a lanky arm drape heavily over his shoulder. Sylvain’s warm nose nuzzles gently into where his neck meets the furs of his coat.

“Fe,” he rumbles beneath him, melting Felix’s cold heart into putty. He sighs heavily in response, refusing to meet Sylvain’s eyes, staring fixedly at a particularly twinkly star above them.

“Fe, you know you can tell me anything,” Sylvain presses. He finally brings a gloved hand up to tilt his jaw towards him. Felix blinks hard, his forehead falling forward against Sylvain’s, soothed by the rhythmic beat of his heart and his hot breath against his lip. Those words, for whatever reason, rip him apart, and suddenly he’s sobbing, tears running fat and salty down his face as he grabs at Sylvain’s face, his hair, the edges of his armor, pressing to get as close to under his skin as he possibly can be.

“Shh, I got you,” Sylvain soothes into his ear, his hands big and soothing, running gentle circles over his back, much unlike Felix’s own, frantic and scrabbling to draw him in closer. He barely registers the whimpers falling from his lips as he pulls Sylvain to him like a dying man gasping for air, needy and raw.

“I can’t stop seeing you,” he confesses, a slight edge of hysteria in his voice. “Dead. I can’t stop thinking about it, Syl. We’re going to die tomorrow, we’re going to die–” his breath is coming frantic now, wild and choking against his lips. He’s all snot and tears against Sylvain’s chest, words echoing hollowly against the metal of his armor’s chest plate.

“No, no, no,” Sylvain presses a kiss, hard and bruising, to his lips, grounding him back to reality. Large hands cradle his face, and he turns up to him with puffy eyes and a quivering lower lip. “Remember our promise, Fe? I’m not going anywhere without you.”

He sobs, squeezing his eyes shut. He can vaguely feel Sylvain shifting them so that he’s in his lap, clutching at the edges of his armor. They kiss, hot and breathless, until his tears subside. He leans his forehead to press against Sylvain’s again, taking a shuddering breath.

“Felix.”

Sylvain’s voice lances straight through him, heat pooling deep in his gut. He opens his eyes, fingers stroking over freckled cheeks. He’ll never, ever get sick of mapping every dip and curve of Sylvain.

“I love you, Fe,” Sylvain whispers against his lips, a small smile on his face. Explosions like firecrackers are lighting off behind his eyelids, his head spinning from the strength of the emotional whiplash. He could cry at the exposed tenderness of their kiss, at how raw he feels.

“I love you, I love you,” Sylvain repeats, his hands pinned to either side of his face, hot and heavy where they encapsulate him. Sylvain ducks down to press another kiss into his mouth, soft and sweet this time. Felix can only gasp against him, sharply inhaling as they pull away to breathe.

“S-Syl_vain_,” he shudders against him as pouty lips make their way down to tease the skin of his neck.

“Are you gonna say it back?” Sylvain murmurs, running the tip of his tongue, hot and wet, over the edge of his ear. He gasps in response, gaze hazy as he twists his head to lock eyes with Sylvain.

“Of course, yes, _ yes, _ I love you–”

And then Sylvain is all over him – cupping his thighs, their chests pressed together, hands roaming up his back and through his hair and over his shoulders. Felix feels dizzy from it all.

“Wanna take you to bed,” Sylvain manages to choke out around desperate kisses, peppering his entire face with them.

He nods, frantic. “Yes, Syl, p– please, yes–”

The world spins as Sylvain’s hands dig into him, hoisting him up as if he weighs nothing at all. He slings his arms around his neck, fisting in red tangled locks. He absolutely cannot keep his eyes off of him, his handsome knight with his halo of flames, murmuring sweet platitudes into the crown of his forehead as he carries them both back towards their tent.

Sylvain lays him down on their cot carefully, tenderly. He’d typically protest at being treated so delicately, but the fact of the matter is that he feels like he could fly apart at any moment. So he lets himself fall back, compliant in a way he’s rarely felt before. If this is their last night together, he’s determined to give himself over to Sylvain – every broken part of him, pressed reverently into freckled hands.

Sylvain stands over him, his mouth twisting into a concentrated pout as he shucks himself of his greaves, kicking them off before moving onto his gauntlets.

Felix sits up, pulling on Sylvain’s wrists until he’s kneeling before him. “C’mere,” he mutters, his brows creasing together. Sylvain beams back at him, radiant and so, so lovely. Practiced hands unbuckle him slowly, methodically, as Sylvain presses little kisses wherever he can reach – his forehead, his ear, the tangle of his bun. His own face is hot and flushed by the time Sylvain is down to his underclothes, his fingers trembling as they graze across his collarbone.

“Your turn,” Sylvain grins, unclipping his coat and chucking it to the corner impatiently. He huffs, nosing into his neck, deft hands quickly stripping him as Felix returns the favor – sucking kiss after kiss into his neck, nibbling softly the further down he goes. Once they’re both panting and down to nothing but their smalls, Sylvain pushes him back into the pile of furs, following quickly after by slinging a leg over the side of Felix’s hip, straddling him.

They both groan in unison as they grind against one another. Sylvain’s attention on his neck is starting to get overwhelming, raw. His pupils are blown wide as he pushes him away. Sylvain looks down at him quizzically, tilting his head to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I want you,” he breathes into the dark.

This prompts a chuckle from Sylvain, nudging his knee between his thighs.

“You have me, sweet,” he rumbles lowly against his lips, long fingers tilting his head back against the furs to open his neck up to his lips yet again. Felix lets his head fall back, squirming against the cot, breath catching as Sylvain returns to sucking dark bruises into his neck.

“I want– I want all of you,” he stutters, stumbling over his words, trying to get him to understand.

“You _ have _ all of me, I _ love you, _” Sylvain responds, a hint of frustration in his voice as he fists his hands into Felix’s hair, pulling the hair tie keeping it off his shoulders out in one swift motion, pinning him down. The friction between their bodies is almost too much to bear – his mind is cloudy and hazy, thoughts turning to mush in his brain.

“No, you idiot, I want– I need–”

His sentence turns into a garbled moan as Sylvain rolls his hips down into him, a smirk pulling at his face. “Use your words, babe,” he purrs, a devilish grin on his face. He knows _ exactly _what he’s doing to him. Brat.

“I want you to fuck me, Sylvain.”

A laugh spills, short and sweet, from Sylvain’s lips. He’s never heard anything more beautiful. Felix trembles beneath him, turning to nuzzle his nose into fluffy red hair.

“Of course, darling,” Sylvain rumbles, deep and scratchy and–

And then.

_ Then _ he proceeds to unravel him apart from the inside out.

He starts slow, pressing languid kisses all the way down Felix’s neck and chest. Felix forces himself to relax under his ministrations – calming himself by stroking his fingers repetitively into Sylvain’s hair. By the time Sylvain’s reached the laces of his smalls, though, he’s quivering and gasping beneath him. One swift motion and there he is, bare and exposed before him, already half-hard and leaking against his stomach.

Sylvain bypasses his cock, though, reaching down to the backside of his thigh, pushing his leg against his stomach as he holds the fold of his leg. He watches as Sylvain sits up, leaning to the side to plant a sweet kiss to his knee. It feels like his face might _ actually _ be on fire, because he doesn’t know how long he’s been moaning, but he also doesn’t really care as Sylvain moves further down. Sylvain’s looking at him like he’s the one who hangs the moon in the sky, and his blush burns fiercely across his chest.

He jolts at the feeling of Sylvain’s finger against him. “Shh, Fe, relax. I’ve got you.” He pants, stomach tensing as he twists to watch him. Sylvain continues to tease him with light pressure, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to his lips. Felix drinks him in greedily, finally something he can focus properly on. An involuntary whine leaves his lips when the redhead pulls away. 

His lips are immediately replaced with the tips of Sylvain’s fingers, dancing, questioning against his swollen lower lip. Felix can’t help but moan, parting his lips, allowing him entry. He laves his tongue wantonly over his fingers, sucking him in. They taste purely of sweat and sex and wine.

“Goddess Felix you’re so good, so beautiful for me,” the praise tumbling from Sylvain’s lips shouldn’t send a jolt of electricity down to his cock to twitch against his hip, but it does. He falls quiet as Sylvain removes his fingers with a soft _ pop! _, rubbing them against each other, a strand of spit connecting the two.

He doesn’t waste any time getting to the point, and thank _ Goddess _ because Felix thinks he might explode at any minute. He’s a shivering, sweaty mess as Sylvain slowly presses into him with one finger, rubbing inside of him. He keens hard into his chest, hands scrabbling for wherever he can find purchase – his shoulders, his hair, his chest. “Nggh, Sylvain,” he moans, desperate, the pressure building rapidly as Sylvain slides another finger in.

Flailing, his hand connects with Sylvain’s jawbone, gripping him hard to smear sloppy kisses against his perfect freckled neck. He’s overwhelmed – he wants to give him everything, his entire self, all of it. He sobs softly as he feels a third finger probe into him, and Goddess if he isn’t already so, so full up.

Sylvain pumps into him, steady and slow, until he feels like he’s going to fall apart. “Need you,” he slurs, voice wrecked, wanting so badly to last for him. “Syl, need you, _ Ineedyou _–” Sylvain’s fingers brush tentatively against that exquisite spot inside of him, and he’s seeing stars, bucking haphazardly into his hand.

Sylvain chuckles, bending down to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “I’ve got you, darling,” he purrs.

He lets out a shuddering gasp when Sylvain withdraws his fingers, suddenly feeling so empty. He faintly registers that Sylvain’s busy with his own smalls, pulling them off in a swift motion before swinging his leg back around to straddle Felix’s chest. He tilts his chin down, staring at Sylvain’s hard, weeping cock. He’d forgotten exactly how big he was, and now the thought of _ that _ fitting inside _ him _ makes his stomach flip nervously.

Sylvain inches forward until his cock is dragging over Felix’s lips. “Help me out?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow up in question. Felix swallows and nods, giving him a tentative lick before parting his lips, letting Sylvain feed himself into him. His lips stretch obscenely around him, his tongue licking heavy circles wherever he can reach. Sylvain’s head falls back, his hands bracketing Felix’s cheeks as he starts thrusting in and out shallowly, fucking his face.

Despite how absolutely filthy they are, there’s still tenderness – in the way Sylvain gazes down at him lovingly, his thumbs stroking over his cheeks, murmuring sweet sounds of encouragement, “You’re so good, baby, doing so good.” Felix can’t help but preen under his praise, relaxing his throat to take him even deeper.

He gurgles around his cock, tonguing over Sylvain’s slit, drool leaking down his chin as Sylvain thrusts into him. His fingers are curled around freckled thighs, spread out on either side of his face, leaving half-moon imprints as he clutches him. He can vaguely feel tears and snot and spit streaming down his face; he’s sure he looks an absolute mess.

It isn’t until he’s gagging against Sylvain, the tip of his cock nudging the back of his throat, does he pull out. Felix gasps for air as Sylvain cradles the nape of his neck, stroking his hair gently as he lazily jerks off over Felix’s face, giving his cock a couple of hard tugs. “So good for me, Fe,” he croons. Felix moans brokenly back in response, eyes clenched shut, overwhelmed and overstimulated.

“Sylvain,” he begs, “P-please, fuck me already.” His voice comes out breathy, whiny, unfamiliar. Sylvain smiles down at him, moving down his body, hitching his thighs against his chest, pressing down exquisitely on the backs of his knees to bend him in half.

“Insatiable,” Sylvain murmurs, dimples forming in his cheeks as he smiles down at him. Felix whimpers at the feeling of his wet, spit-slicked cock pressing against his hole and the overwhelming pressure as Sylvain presses in slowly. He keens forward, back arching off the bed, a loud moan tumbling from his lips as Sylvain sheathes himself inside fully.

They both pause, breathing hard, as Felix adjusts. Sylvain’s staring down at him, pupils blown huge around a sliver of hazel, red hair thoroughly disheveled around his face. He huffs out a moan as Sylvain shifts his hips, clenching tightly around him. 

“I’ve got you, Fe,” Sylvain whispers, and Felix can only nod, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he works to try to relax, to give himself completely over to Sylvain, to surrender everything. He focuses completely on Sylvain – Sylvain, cradling his hips in his hands, trailing kisses across his shoulder, caring for him, actively loving him. Every broken piece. All he wants is to give him the world in return.

“Goddess, Fe, you feel so good, so perfect,” Sylvain pants, ducking down to lick a wide stripe up his jawbone. Felix shudders, experimentally pressing his hips up to rock shallowly beneath him. He reaches a hand up to stroke the side of Sylvain’s face, breathing deep, nodding quietly. 

Sylvain gets the hint and rolls his hips deeply into him. A cry tumbles from his lips, hands gripping up and around on Sylvain’s back, leaving shallow red scratches in his freckled shoulders. They quickly establish a steady pace, and every time Sylvain drives his cock into him the pressure builds up more and more.

He snaps his hips into him particularly roughly, drawing a cry from his lips, feeling like his soul is about to leave his body because of how good he feels. The bite of pain brings a sharp edge to the pleasure, and he immediately craves more.

“Harder, more, harder,” he pants. 

In response, Sylvain tips two fingers into his mouth, hooking around his bottom teeth. Felix moans around them, letting his mouth hang open, drool dripping from the corners of his lips. Sylvain’s fingers gather it up and push it back into his mouth sloppily.

He brings his other hand to thumb over the tip of Felix’s cock. “Come for me, darling,” Sylvain begs, thrusting up into him rapidly now. At every third stroke he hits that sweet, perfect spot within him, makes him see stars. Felix whimpers, completely at his mercy, unable to do anything but cry out pitifully as Sylvain fucks into him.

“Let go, Fe.”

And so he does – coming harder than he ever has in his life. His release spurts erratically over Sylvain’s chest and his own stomach; his vision whites out completely. He has no idea how long he’s been panting against him when he finally comes back down, everything made fuzzy and soft by bliss.

“You alright?” Sylvain asks sympathetically, stroking the backside of his fingers over the tear tracks staining Felix’s face. He leans easily into the touch, nodding, not sure if he trusts himself yet enough to speak. Sylvain is still deep inside him, hard and pulsing, unmoving. The tender expression on his face is nearly enough to melt him into putty all over again.

“Keep going,” he rasps, burying his face into Sylvain’s neck, lips dragging over freckled skin. He’s sore and overstimulated but desperately wants to give Sylvain everything. “I want you to– inside me–” This pulls a weak cry from Sylvain, moaning lowly as he braces himself with his elbows on either side of Felix’s head and slowly starts to resume his thrusting.

Felix lets his head fall back, eyes unseeing, as Sylvain continues fucking into him, steady, quickly picking up his pace as he nears his peak. He’s so blissed out that it takes him a couple of moments to realize that Sylvain is panting against him, sweaty forehead pressed to his collarbone, chanting under his breath: “I love you, I love you, I love you _ Iloveyou _–”

His heart gives a weak flutter and he reaches his hands up to move across Sylvain’s body, soothing against his tense stomach, rubbing into his shoulders, tweaking a nipple gently. His own body is limp, breath ragged, from his orgasm, but he takes everything Sylvain’s giving him, open and wanting.

“I’m– ‘m close–“ Sylvain chokes out, his face wet, buried into Felix’s neck, worrying his skin beneath his teeth. 

“I wanna feel all of you, all the time–“ Felix mumbles into his hair, urging him along, whispering nonsense. He looks up to see Sylvain’s tongue caught between his teeth, focused and thrusting erratically until he’s tensed up deep inside him, stomach convulsing as he empties inside of him. His thrusts fill him, thick white ropes painting his insides as Sylvain ruts against him. 

Sylvain pulls out and collapses soon after, half draped over his body, sticky and sweet. Felix feels full and so, so in love. He turns on his side, fingers combing through Sylvain’s hair, sucking kisses into where the sweat is pooling in his collarbone. 

“Thank you,” Sylvain breathes after his breathing evens out to something closer to normal. Felix squirms, feeling sticky, Sylvain’s release leaking out of him as they twist until their noses are nearly touching on the shared pillow.

Felix hums in response, his fingers tracing circles into Sylvain’s hipbone. They remain like that for longer than he can count – tired and blissed out against each other. He feels oddly content, given that they’re still to march to their death tomorrow.

He’s nearly asleep when he feels Sylvain start to slip out of the bed beside him. He gives a small whine, arms reaching to pull him back but finding only blankets and furs. 

“Syl?” He asks into the darkness, finally bothering to lift his head from the pillow, watching as Sylvain moves around their small tent. He returns to bed holding a rag, miraculously clean given they’d been marching towards Enbarr for at least a week now and nearly everything they owned was filthy by this point.

He stretches out lazily as Sylvain begins to wipe him down, arms above his head on the pillow, legs parting easily. A soft smile plays over his lips as Sylvain dips down to kiss him tenderly – on his knee, on the inside of his thigh, on his shoulder.

“How are you?” Sylvain asks, breath hot against his skin. Finished with cleaning both of them off, he drops the towel off the side of the cot, slotting himself next to Felix comfortably.

“Never been better,” he admits truthfully, eyes half-lidded and tired as they look into Sylvain’s. One of his big hands reaches up to stroke Felix’s face carefully and Felix returns the favor, pushing his sweat-soaked curls from his forehead. He closes his eyes, dropping dangerously close to sleep.

“I love you, Fe. No matter what happens tomorrow. I love you,” Sylvain’s voice interrupts him, husky where his hot breath passes over his face.

“Shh, ‘m trying to sleep,” Felix grumbles back.

“Say it back,” Sylvain whines, peppering insistent kisses to the side of his face.

Felix can't help but laugh, soft and sweet, against Sylvain's neck.

“I love you, Syl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u thought sex was gonna happen without crying u were dead wrong!!!
> 
> bonus post-enbarr chapter feat. more extremely tender smut coming soon <3


End file.
